


The Weight of Everything You Hold

by neglectedtuesday



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demon Hunters, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Doomed Relationship, F/F, Fears as Demonic Entities, Kissing, Light Angst, Mentioned Jude Perry, Religion, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24741805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neglectedtuesday/pseuds/neglectedtuesday
Summary: Sometimes Gertrude wonders what would have happened if she had been shrewder. If she has met Adelard a few years earlier. Every time she thinks she has abandoned that kind of wishful thinking, the consequences of her actions rear their heads.No good deed goes unpunished, Gertrude supposes. And she has committed many good deeds that need punishing.
Relationships: Agnes Montague/Gertrude Robinson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	The Weight of Everything You Hold

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I couldn't even tell you what this is - perhaps I'll play around in this verse some more but who's to say. 
> 
> For Stevie, Nemo and Alexa, even though I didn't tell you I was writing this. What a fun treat for you.

Dawn cracks an egg and the sun-yolk spills out, the winter sky streaked briefly golden before being swallowed by low hanging clouds. The goblin market beneath Vauxhall bridge has been bustling since before the yolking, tables assembled and wares displayed as London starts to wake. Those below only know that Dawn has come when the large, copper clock hanging from the ceiling lets out a cascading chime and the stone door to the market melts away like spilled milk in a gutter. 

Adelard Dekker is among the first to march across the threshold, stride purposeful and measured. Gertrude Robinson trails along behind, idly stubbing her cigarette out beneath her boot and shoving her hands into the pockets of her overcoat. Gertrude doesn’t feel the need to keep up with Adelard; she knows where he’ll end up and besides, breakfast is calling.

She gets black coffee for herself, green tea for Adelard. On a whim she buys herself an almond croissant, devouring it greedily as she winds her way through the jumbled stalls. The goblin market is fairly busy for a Tuesday morning; commuters eager for alternate breakfast options, assorted magic folk looking for spell ingredients with a side of gossip. Other demon hunters, who keep their gaze averted when Gertrude walks by. Gertrude lets the corner of his lip quirk upwards, the only tell that she’s pleased by the way everyone quakes in their boots at the sight of her. It’s a heady thing, to be instantly feared, to have a reputation for efficiency to the point of ruthlessness. 

Adelard is comparing salt when Gertrude finds him. Adelard is not a tall man; his lean physique and general demeanour make him appear more imposing than height. He’s starting to grey at the temples. They both are. Everyday Gertrude finds silver interwoven into the chestnut brown of her hair, a reminder that all this will come to a close one day. They won’t be fast enough, their bodies worn down and their minds duller than kitchen knives. Rituals will slip through their fingers like the salt grains in Adelard’s palm. 

Or worse, their age will force retirement upon them. Arthritis or some other symptom of age will creep up while they’re not looking, ushering them to a comfortable chair and placing a variety of pills into their wizened hands. How disappointing to be betrayed by biology. Gertrude hopes she goes down with lighter fluid in her hand and a box of matches, rather than wasting away in some nursing home. 

“Thoughts?” Adelard asks, accepting the tea. Gertrude shrugs.

“You know if it doesn’t blow a demon sky high then I don’t care.”

“Sometimes clients prefer we keep their buildings intact.”

Gertrude takes a sip of coffee. It’s not nearly hot enough. “Clients don’t appreciate a controlled burn.”

Adelard makes a quiet noise that’s not quite a laugh and pays for his salt. The rest of the morning will be a series of inventory based chores, though Gertrude expects information gathering is a nice little bonus. People have a knack for spilling their stories to Gertrude, eloquent and neatly ordered as if they’ve been practising for hours before Gertrude arrives. Most of the time it’s useful, sometimes Gertrude wishes she didn’t inspire the compulsion to share. Adelard, for all his imposing presence, has a kind face. Gertrude has a face that looks hewn from rock, all severe angles and slate coolness. 

“The People’s Church are buying up property in Hither Green,” Adelard says as they climb the steps from the goblin market back up to Vauxhall bridge. Gertrude pulls her coat closer around her, the wind off the Thames sneaking it’s way through the layers. 

“How many times are we going to blow up their bloody churches?” Gertrude grumbles. She pats one of her pockets, trying to remember which one has the cigarettes in. 

“Until Rayner’s money runs out presumably. Or they finally summon the Still and Lightless Beast.”

Gertrude strikes a match off the nearby wall, cupping the flame so that the wind doesn’t extinguish it. She shakes the packet at Adelard but he holds up a hand to decline. 

“We’d better look into exactly what buildings Rayner is planning to buy, see if we can access some blueprints, and before you ask, no you cannot blow the budget on C4?”

Gertrude snorts, as if to imply she wouldn’t dream of it. Adelard finishes his tea, throwing the cup in a nearby bin. He gestures to take Gertrude’s, waiting on top of the wall as if Gertrude will be inclined to drink it again. Gertrude turns, making a motion to grab it but pauses. The liquid inside is bubbling, steam rising in soft curls. 

Gertrude lifts the cup, raising an eyebrow when she spots a red lipstick mark on the rim. The coffee is just shy of scalding and bitter on her tongue.

\----

When Gertrude was younger, she was more reckless. The folly of youth is the idea that you’re invincible, that you can’t be touched. Realistically, Gertrude was more foolish, too eager to cut her teeth on a job that she barely understood. She let herself be led down a path, a blindfolded lamb being guided to the slaughter. 

The most galling part is that she thought she was helping. Thought she had solved the puzzle, that her actions would make this world safer. And on some level, she did. She stopped a ritual, prevented a greater demon from crawling through a crack in the universe to wreak havoc. But the cost was allowing herself to be bound, to be tangled in another demon acolytes manipulations. 

Sometimes Gertrude wonders what would have happened if she had been shrewder. If she has met Adelard a few years earlier. Every time she thinks she has abandoned that kind of wishful thinking, the consequences of her actions rear their heads. 

No good deed goes unpunished, Gertrude supposes. And she has committed many good deeds that need punishing.

\-----

As a rule, Gertrude typically waits outside while Adelard performs exorcisms. She has the knowledge but Adelard has the conviction. He believes in a just and loving God, has carried a small crucifix as long as Gertrude has known him. Gertrude has never had much time for faith, never really saw how it factored into demon hunting. She knew that most demon hunters had some kind of religious belief, some more zealous about it than others. 

Gertrude would be considered a lapsed Catholic, if she was to be considered anything. She never took communion but her father was Catholic, and they attended mass for a while until their priest was reassigned and her father disliked the replacement. She went to a Catholic secondary school but was taught by actual teachers as opposed to nuns. She did not find comfort in God, nor saw the need to believe in one. 

The existence of demons - though really they were just creatures of another realm, demons was a Church term - didn’t foster any religious tendency either. The fact that those who sought to bring those creatures into this realm tended to form cults dripping with religious fervour and symbolism struck Gertrude as apt, if a little obvious.

Still, she had enjoyed lighting candles in churches. Her father always lit one if he visited, regardless of time or country. From looming Cathedrals to tiny shrines, he would light a candle and cross himself, a habit Gertrude found herself forming, seemingly without her permission. The smell of a lit match, the sound it made as it flickered into life, was as much part of her childhood as anything else.

Adelard exits the house, tucking his crucifix back beneath his shirt. Gertrude hops off the wall, pushing the metal front gate open with her foot.

“Please say you were paid in cash this time,” Gertrude says. 

“It was a cheque.”

Gertrude rolls her eyes. “We don’t have time to make a bank deposit.”

“Do you have anywhere else to be today?”

Gertrude pushes her glasses up her nose. “Perhaps.”

Adelard retrieves a pair of leather gloves from his pocket. “Well don’t let me keep you, if you have other… plans.”

“Don’t say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Full of insinuations.”

Adelard gives Gertrude a wry smile. “I think it’s nice that you have a date.”

  
“It’s not a date.” 

Adelard’s butter-wouldn’t-melt expression will one day drive Gertrude to violence. She marches on ahead, ignoring Adelard’s needling questions. 

\-----

Gertrude has misplaced her matchbook. It’s entirely possible that Adelard has pinched it, which would only be fair given that Gertrude stole it from him in the first place. She searches the pockets of her overcoat, unlit cigarette between her lips.

She hears the strike of a match, clearer than a bell, despite the raucous sounds of the pub. Gertrude turns, already knowing who has slid into the seat next to her. 

“May I?” Agnes asks, her voice smoke soft. Gertrude nods, leaning in. Agnes cups her hand around the flame, dark eyes glittering as she lights Gertrude’s cigarette. Their heads are so close that Gertrude can smell Agnes’s perfume, a strange, although pleasant floral scent. Agnes’s hair is longer since Gertrude last saw her, though the vibrancy hasn’t faded. Auburn curls frame her face, accentuating her high cheekbones. 

Gertrude leans back, blowing smoke away from their table. Agnes smiles, bringing the lit match to her painted red lips. Her mouth forms a little oh shape as she blows it out. 

“Is heating up my coffee a good use of your demonic powers?” Gertrude asks. 

“Is anything a good use?”

Gertrude takes a long drag on the cigarette. “I’m sure Jude probably has some ideas.”

“I don’t want to talk about Jude.” Agnes folds her arms over her chest. She holds herself as if she’s afraid her wax body will melt, as if by clinging to her arms she can keep herself in one piece. 

Gertrude holds her cigarette in the opposite way, a loose, casual wrist as if she’s unconcerned with where the ashes end up. 

“We usually only have these chats when you’re fighting with Jude…”

“I said I don’t want to talk about Jude,” Agnes snaps. All fire but no heat. Gertrude holds up a hand as a peace making gesture.

“What do you want to talk about?” Gertrude asks, tilting her head to one side, “the weather? London’s property market? The boy whose face you mutilated?”

Agnes avoids Gertrude’s gaze. “You know about that?”

“There’s not much concerning you that I don’t know about. Though I’m not sure why you would entertain a relationship with someone so…  _ fragile _ .”

Agnes tucks her hair behind her ear, exposing the soft line of her throat. “A chance at normalcy, even for a little while.”

Gertrude flicks ash into the crystal ashtray. “Did you love him?”

“No, he was a distraction.”

“That sounds like Jude.”

“She was right, to some extent. I wanted a distraction. Sometimes burning a life to the ground isn’t that fulfilling, sometimes I want to experience something different.” 

“The woes of an unwilling Messiah,” Gertrude says, “that wrecking a life would become so commonplace.”

Flames flicker in Agnes’s irises, cities sieged and burning, the desolation of lives and property and all that is yet to ignite. 

Gertrude stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray. 

\-----

Agnes slams Gertrude against the brick wall, plundering Gertrude’s mouth like it’s hers to take. Not so much a kiss as a claiming, a reminder that Agnes is as tied to Gertrude as Gertrude is to her. If their souls weren’t woven together with spider silk, Gertrude imagines that she would be burning like that boy. Gertrude pulls Agnes closer, moaning softly when Agnes cups Gertrude’s face with gentle fingers. As if this, whatever this is, could ever be tender. As if tomorrow they won’t pretend that this never happened, won’t go back demon hunter and demon messiah. 

Agnes’s other hand is sneaking beneath Gertrude’s skirt, dancing along Gertrude’s thigh with intent. 

“Careful,” Gertrude murmurs against Agnes’ lips, “we’re in public. Wouldn’t want one of your sycophants reporting back to Jude would we?”

“Mention her again,” Agnes growls, the words lost as she moves her mouth to Gertrude’s neck. She nuzzles at the underside of Gertrude’s ear before biting. Gertrude lets out a sharp exhale, hands coming to Agnes’s hair. She doesn’t know whether she wants to pull Agnes away or hold her in place. The decision is maddening. 

Agnes decides that she’s left an obvious enough mark. She presses a finger against it, perhaps wishing she could turn it into a brand. Gertrude yanks Agnes back to kiss her, open-mouthed and wet. 

A car backfires, the sudden noise resulting in them springing apart. Gertrude’s lips tingle, her skin warm and flushed. Agnes has a high blush on her cheeks, the collar of her skirt rumpled and her pupils blown wide. Gertrude would like nothing more than to take Agnes home, splay her out in full on Gertrude’s soft cotton sheets and wreck her. Reduce Agnes to a begging mess. Block out the world for a few hours and just be two women learning how to take each other apart.

But she has a different demon to destroy tonight. The People’s Church won’t burn itself to the ground. 

“Until next time Agnes,” Gertrude says. She kisses Agnes on the cheek, tender despite its emotional distance. 

Midnight blossoms into being as Gertrude hails a cab. When she turns back to look where Agnes was, there’s only scorched brick and cigarette ends. 


End file.
